


Princess Lavinia

by purple_emo



Category: Sanders Sides (Web Series)
Genre: Angst, But don't expect too much happiness, Dissociation, Gen, Nobody is having a good time in this fic, Suicidal Thoughts, Suicide, Suicide Attempt, The first chapter is hurt/comfort I guess, especially Roman, kind of, kind of a vent
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-09-06
Updated: 2021-02-21
Packaged: 2021-03-07 01:26:40
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 6,733
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26328619
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/purple_emo/pseuds/purple_emo
Summary: Roman projects his feelings onto a fictional character. Things get out of hand.
Relationships: Anxiety | Virgil Sanders & Creativity | Roman "Princey" Sanders
Comments: 17
Kudos: 30





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Extra warning: this is a story about suicidal ideation. I did my best to avoid being too graphic, but please be careful.

Roman’s adventures with Princess Lavinia started off fairly innocent. He’d made himself a small kingdom in the mind palace in which to conduct magical adventures, and, with the other sides frequently too busy to join him in his exploits, it wasn’t long before Roman saw the need to create an adventuring companion as well. She was the archetypal fairytale princess: pretty, kind, and able to fill any role that the narrative required of her. Because she was created by Roman, Lavina lacked the capacity to do anything that Roman’s own imagination could not conceive, but, as the embodiment of creativity, he didn’t feel at all restricted by this limitation. Lavinia quickly became one of Roman’s favourite hobbies: when he needed a break from his work, he would excuse himself to his kingdom. There, he would act out a variety of stories with Lavinia: saving her from dragons; exploring ancient ruins with her; defending their kingdom from armies of hostile elves. The many enemies they slayed left no corpses behind, instead exploding into red rose petals. Death was messy, and Roman thought it best to avoid dealing with it too directly.

“You’re my best friend,” he had Lavinia say after one particularly eventful quest, “and I would slay all the monsters in the world with nothing but a hand fan just to keep you safe.”

“Oh, that’s good,” he replied, writing the line down in his notebook. His adventures with Lavinia were an excellent source of dialogue. Later, he had her do exactly the thing she had described, and then did it himself just to see what it was like. It was wonderful.

♥♥♥♥♥♥

Gradually, Roman found himself spending more time with Lavinia than with the other sides or Thomas. He loved his friends, but his interactions with them didn’t quite sparkle the way his stories did. Nobody and nothing was dramatic enough, or emotional enough, or _real_ enough, except for that one little piece of the mind palace and the make-believe Princess living in it. Everything else in Roman’s life felt unbearably boring, and although his friends made things a lot more tolerable, they could never compete with the products of his own imagination.

One afternoon, while they were enjoying a picnic after a successful battle, Lavinia turned to Roman with a frown. “Are you okay?” She asked. “Your heart didn’t really seem to be in it today.”

“Oh, it’s nothing.” He stared down at his untouched sandwich.

“It’s not nothing! You can talk to me about anything, Roman. That’s what I’m here for, I think.”

Roman sighed. “I don’t know,” he replied. “I guess the whole… fairytale adventure thing feels a bit hollow right now.” _So does everything else,_ he nearly added. “I think right now I’d prefer something more…” he gestured vaguely, trying to find the right word.

“Mature?” Lavinia suggested.

“Maybe. I think what I want is emotional depth. Swordfights and dragons are fun, but I think I’m not really feeling it right now.”

“Hmmm…” Lavinia looked down and fidgeted with her hair, taking in this new information. After a few seconds, she met Roman’s eyes again, sorrow written clearly in her expression. “I’m cursed,” she announced. “Someone has taken my heart and locked it up in a faraway, secret place, so that I can never really be human again.”

Roman scribbled excitedly in his notebook, letting a wave of sorrow and pity wash over him. It felt beautiful. “That’s terrible. How can we break the curse?”

Lavinia stared at Roman in silence for a few seconds, and he suddenly felt as if she was looking directly into his soul. “I don’t think we can,” she said.

♥♥♥♥♥♥

For the next few weeks, Roman spent most of his time with Lavinia, fleshing out her backstory. He wrote it all down in his notebook for future reference: Lavinia’s villainous twin sister, exiled to a distant land for her crimes; her desperate desire to impress her father, the king—all of it was carefully summarized in neat, princely handwriting for incorporation in future creative projects. Roman felt genuinely passionate for the first time in a while. Meeting with Lavinia and learning more about her became the highlight of his day; the stab of sorrow he felt in his gut whenever she disclosed something particularly tragic was invigorating. It made him feel so much more alive than he had in weeks. And then—

“I shouldn’t be alive,” said Lavinia.

Roman had, on some level, seen it coming. After all, he _was_ the one coming up with Lavinia’s lines, however passively. This did not prevent him from nearly dropping his notebook in shock. It _hurt_ to hear her say that, and he loved it.

“Why?” He asked her.

“I’ve been thinking about the curse,” Lavinia explained, “and the more I think about it, the clearer it becomes that I was wrong. It wasn’t a curse at all; I had no heart to take because I was never real enough to have one. This body,” she ran a shaking hand along her arm, “people like to make up stories about it. They imagine that it is a princess, and that her name is Lavinia, and that she is kind and cheerful and brave,” Lavinia was crying, “but it’s a corpse, and I am a ghost who has stolen it.”

“What are you going to do now?” asked Roman. He noticed a small knife in Lavinia’s hand. How long had it been there?

“I don’t know,” Lavinia admitted, staring down at the knife. “Too many people think Lavinia is real. I don’t want to disappoint them.”

The knife quickly dissolved into rose petals, and Roman felt a strange sense of disappointment as he watched them slip through Lavinia’s fingers.

♥♥♥♥♥♥

It was three days before Lavinia went through with it. When she pressed the knife to her throat, Roman begged her not to do it. He didn’t mean it of course (the whole scenario was still his idea); he just felt like it would ruin the immersion for him to just stand around and do nothing. Inevitably, she cut her throat. Inevitably, Roman held her in his arms and watched blood flow from the wound with the detached voyeurism of an author writing a tragedy. Inevitably, she exploded into a shower of rose petals.

Roman stayed sitting on the floor for a while, blood on his clothes and rose petals in his hands. His heart was racing, and he felt like his whole body was soaked with sweat. That beautiful, overwhelming sword of pain was stabbing through his heart with an intensity he had never before felt. It was agonizing, and it was glorious.

Roman snapped his fingers, and Lavinia was back in front of him, unharmed.

She went for the knife immediately.

They went through the scenario five more times, trying out different lines, different actions on Roman’s part, different ways for Lavinia to hurt herself. Roman was preparing himself for another run-through when he felt himself being pulled out of the mind palace.

He rose up in his usual spot. “Roman—“ Thomas, who had evidently summoned him, cut himself off with a gasp. “Oh my gosh. Are you okay?”

Roman glanced around the room. Patton, Logan, and Virgil were all there in addition to Thomas, and all of them were staring at Roman with varying amounts of horror and concern. Roman abruptly remembered that he was covered in blood.

“Don’t worry,” he assured Thomas. “It’s not mine.”

Nobody looked particularly comforted by the clarification. “Do I want to know?” asked Thomas.

“Probably not. Anyway, what’s the situation?”

“Recently,” Logan explained, “Thomas has noticed that many of his ideas are much more melancholy in tone than usual. Remus swears that he isn’t the one responsible, so, logically, it must be due to your influence that Thomas is having these ideas.”

Panic filled Roman’s chest. “I’m sorry—“

Thomas cut him off. “I’m not mad. I’m totally fine with using darker concepts in my work if that’s what you think is best. I just want to make sure you’re okay.”

“You haven’t been talking as much lately,” Patton added, “and some of the concepts you’re giving Thomas are a bit… out of the ordinary for you.” He made eye contact, looking noticeably concerned. “We just want you to know that you can talk to us if there’s something wrong.”

Anguish returned to Roman’s chest, feeling more agonizing than cathartic. He’d failed. He’d let his feelings get in the way of his work, and now everyone thought there was something _wrong_ , and they were all looking at him with those kind, worried expressions that he knew he didn’t deserve.

What would they think if they knew what he’d been doing all afternoon? Roman glanced down at the blood on his clothes and decided that everything was fine. It had to be.

Roman laughed, perhaps a bit too loudly. “Thank you all, but I’m fine, really. I just wanted to try some new ideas. On a scale of one to ten, how much do you love them?”

Virgil stared suspiciously at him from across the room. “Do your ‘new ideas’ involve you rising up covered in blood and looking like you just saw a serial killer? I _saw_ the look on your face when Thomas summoned you. There’s something you’re not telling us.”

“I was having one of my adventures just now, and things got a little intense,” Roman said, his heart racing. “Not everything has some deep hidden meaning behind it, The Smell Jar.”

“That was childish, even for you,” said Virgil, “but I like the Sylvia Plath reference.”

“Ah, Sylvia Plath,” said Logan. “Did you know that, in addition to her writing, she also made visual art?”

Roman’s strange behaviour forgotten, the conversation moved on.

♥♥♥♥♥♥

Over the next several weeks, Roman found himself with less and less motivation to do anything but run through stories with Lavinia. He told himself that he was still being productive—he continued to write things down in case they came in handy for a future creative project, even though his “adventures” in the kingdom were all far too violent and depressing to ever be turned into something useful for Thomas. Roman hardly ever wanted to tell stories about anything other than suicide. It was, of course, only a matter of time before things escalated further.

One day, after around the eighth time Lavinia had died, Roman realized that his usual routine was starting to get boring. That dazzling anguish in his chest was diminishing in intensity. He needed something more real, something more personal. He needed—

Roman snapped his fingers, and Lavinia appeared looking much more alert than she had in weeks.

“I want to die,” he told her.

♥♥♥♥♥♥

That day, Roman attempted suicide nine times. None of it was real, of course, but he did his best to make it _feel_ real. Lavinia pulled him close, kept him back from the windowsill, repeated over and over again every reason Roman could think of for him to stay alive. He told himself it was only acting. By the third time, he felt as if he was on the verge of tearing in half: one part of him, his body made of shaking, warm metaphysical flesh, stayed with its feet planted firmly on the ground. The rest of him drifted in and out of sync with his body, bobbing and pulling up to the sky like a balloon tied to his wrist. At the time, it seemed overwhelmingly important to Roman that he find a way to cut the string: it was strange, being only halfway outside of his body. He would have greatly preferred to drift away entirely, to break into pieces and sail through the sky to places unknown.

He told himself it was only acting.

It was fairly late in the afternoon when Roman remembered his notebook. Head still spinning from the previous several hours, he reached into his pocket and found it empty. He’d forgotten the notebook. In its place, Roman summoned a slip of paper and a pen. He’d copy his notes down later.

♥♥♥♥♥♥

Roman headed back to his room a few minutes later. He still felt somewhat disconnected from his body, but the feeling was fading fast. He made an effort to notice the colours of things. White walls. Brown rug. Black shoes. Roman was still naming colours when he opened the door to his bedroom and saw Virgil pacing nervously around the room.

At the sound of the door opening, Virgil turned to look at him. His eyeshadow was smudged, and he looked like he’d been crying. He was holding his phone in one hand and Roman’s notebook in the other.

There was a long pause. Roman internally braced himself for yelling, or crying, or deeply awkward emotional conversation.

“You weren’t answering your phone,” Virgil said finally.

Roman gestured to his dresser, where his phone sat partially obscured by a small stack of loose paper. “I didn’t have it with me.” He watched Virgil quickly type something. “What are you doing?”

“I’m texting Patton. I was worried, so I asked him to go look for you.”

“Oh.” Roman suddenly felt very nervous. “I’m sorry. Does he know about…?”

“This?” Virgil held up the notebook. “No. I found it when I was in here looking for my nail polish.”

Roman walked over to a nearby drawer and produced a bottle of black nail polish with a little Jack Skellington face on its lid. He’d ‘borrowed’ it a few weeks prior for some now-abandoned photography project, and subsequently forgotten about it. “Here.” He handed it to Virgil.

“Thanks,” said Virgil, slipping the bottle into his hoodie pocket. “I’d remind you to stay out of my room, but it looks like we have more important things to worry about right now.”

There was another pause. “You probably want to talk about that, don’t you?” said Roman, gesturing to the notebook in Virgil’s hand.

“Yeah. Can we go somewhere else—I mean, if you’re comfortable—”

Roman waved a hand, and suddenly they were in the castle he’d created for Lavinia. The light of a full moon streamed through a floor length window, illuminating the antique-looking couch that was the centerpiece of the room. An archway opposite the window led out to a pristine, wallpapered hallway. “Is this good?”

“Yeah, thanks,” Virgil said nervously. He walked to one of the couches and sat down with strained formality. Roman quietly took a seat next to him. “So, um… first question: who’s Princess Lavinia?”

“She’s a character I created. This,” he gestured to the room around them, “is where she lives. I come here when I’m craving adventure.”

“So, she’s like an imaginary friend?”

“Basically. She’s upstairs, if you want to meet her.”

“I…” Virgil glanced down at the notebook. “No thanks. I want to talk to _you._ Second question: what’s the deal with this notebook?”

“That’s where I document my adventures with Lavinia, in case they come in handy for scriptwriting or something similar.

Virgil nodded. “Okay.” He took a deep breath. “I guess what I have to ask is… why all the suicide? Like, at least half of this notebook is just Princess Lavinia killing herself in different ways. That’s not exactly an ‘adventure.’ It sounds more like you’re having some kind of mental breakdown that you cope with by standing in an imaginary castle and watching a fictional character die over and over, which is honestly pretty concerning.”

“I am not having ‘some kind of mental breakdown,’” Roman insisted. “I am _acting_. What, am I not allowed to tell stories with emotional depth?” That last question came out a lot more aggressively than Roman had intended, but before he could apologize, Virgil was already responding.

“This isn’t emotional depth! This is the same emotion repeated over and over for, like, forty pages!” Virgil paused. “Is this what you were doing that day you showed up covered in blood?”

“Yeah. That was basically when it started.”

Virgil paused, taking in this information. “That was a month and a half ago,” he said, horrified.

Roman felt sweaty. “It’s not as bad as it sounds. You don’t need to worry—”

“Have you forgotten who you’re talking to?” snapped Virgil. “Of course I’m going to worry! I’m _Anxiety_ , and you’ve been roleplaying suicide fantasies with your weird self-insert OC for—” he stood up and flipped frantically through the pages of the notebook. “Have you been doing this _every day?_ ”

Roman nodded, very much wishing he could escape the conversation.

Virgil swore quietly. “This explains so much.”

Roman stood up and awkwardly extended a hand to comfort him. “It’s really not that big of a deal.” He was suddenly aware of an inexplicable sense of urgency.

Virgil stepped backwards, avoiding Roman’s touch. “ _Not that big of a deal?_ Are you _kidding_ me? You barely talk to anyone at all anymore, you give Thomas either weirdly depressing ideas or nothing at all, and you literally spend all your free time thinking about suicide. If you actually think you’re in any way okay, then you’re either deeply in denial or a complete idiot.”

“I’m not…” Roman trailed off. Somehow, he couldn’t think of a rebuttal. He went over the past few months in his mind and realized that Virgil was right. “I haven’t been myself,” he admitted, sinking back onto the couch. “I don’t think I’m even real, actually.” Roman buried his face in his hands, fighting back tears. He was suddenly very conscious of how exhausted he felt.

The room was silent for several long seconds.

“What do you mean?” asked Virgil.

Roman looked up, and saw that Virgil had quietly taken a seat next to him. What _did_ Roman mean? Of course he wasn’t real—none of them were, but Roman’s words had meant something more than that. Looking at Virgil, he got an impression of _existence_ that he hadn’t gotten from himself in a long time. Virgil was Virgil, in a way that Roman could never hope to be Roman. It occurred to him that perhaps he’d been projecting onto Lavinia a bit more than he’d realized.

“I’m supposed to be better than this,” said Roman. “I’m supposed to be Prince Roman, source of Thomas’ hopes and dreams. I’m supposed to be Creativity. I’m supposed to be kind, and charming, and brave, but I’m just…” he trailed off. “If I can’t give him anything to look forward to, what _good_ am I? Why should I exist?”

Roman hadn’t expected himself to say that. “This is a problem,” he said through tears, “isn’t it?”

“Yeah,” said Virgil. They sat in silence for a moment before he spoke again. “Look, um… it might not mean much, because our situations are kind of different, but I used to think that I didn’t contribute anything useful, and that everyone would be better off without me, and that it wouldn’t matter if I removed myself from the equation. Do you remember what happened when I actually left?”

Roman stared thoughtfully at the carpet. “Thomas became a complete fool with no inhibitions.”

“Right! Because I was wrong, and so are you.”

Roman considered this for a moment. The words were so simple, and yet, somehow, Virgil’s reassurance felt so much more comforting than any of the things he’d had Lavinia say to talk him down. “That… actually helps a lot. Thank you.”

“Anytime.” Virgil crossed his arms thoughtfully. “We should probably tell Thomas to see a therapist or something. If you’re… like this, he probably isn’t doing great either, whether he realizes it or not.”

Roman nodded. “That’s probably a good idea. Just…” he hesitated, “can we keep this a secret? The things I just told you about, I mean.”

“Are you sure?” asked Virgil. “It seems like something he should know about.”

“I’m sure.” Roman felt a surge of panic. He couldn’t let the others know. He wasn’t quite able to explain to himself why, but it felt crucial that everything he and Virgil had discussed should remain between the two of them. “I don’t want to have that conversation yet. Besides, maybe therapy will fix it. If Thomas feels better, I’ll feel better, and then we won’t have to bring it up at all.”

Virgil looked doubtful, but nodded anyway. “Okay,” he said. “I won’t tell anyone, but I’m holding onto the notebook. If you ever seem like you aren’t safe, I’m not keeping this a secret.”

Fair enough. “Deal,” said Roman, holding out his hand to shake. Virgil started to reach for it, but paused.

“Wait,” said Virgil. “One more thing. Actually, two more things. Number one: I want us to stay here tonight, because I really don’t feel comfortable leaving you alone.”

Roman thought back to the day’s events, neatly recorded on the slip of paper concealed in his pocket. He had a feeling that if Virgil knew the exact details of what he’d been doing, he would be requesting a lot more than permission to supervise him for a single night.

“That’s probably a good idea,” Roman admitted. “What else?”

“This is more of an offer than a request, but,” Virgil nervously ran his fingers along a seam on his sleeve, “I could join you here sometimes, if you want. Just so you won’t be spending all day alone with your thoughts.”

Roman thought for a moment. “Are you open to the possibility of magical adventures?”

“Sure,” said Virgil. “But only real adventures; no weirdly-emotionally-intense-and-bordering-on-self-harm adventures.”

Roman had a feeling that he might regret this later, but he had a much stronger feeling that Virgil’s offer was exactly what he needed. “Perfect,” he said. They shook hands.

Virgil gave a small, relieved smile, which Roman returned. He wondered how long it had been since the last time he’d genuinely smiled. A few days? A week? A month?

They fell asleep on the couch, listening to the Death Note musical on Virgil’s phone.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay, so this took a bit longer than I expected! I've decided to lengthen the fic once again because I still haven't reached a point in the narrative that can connect with the ending I've written. Things get even angstier in this chapter. Read at your own risk.

Five days later, Roman realized his mistake.

It was his attempts to spend more time around the other sides that first tipped him off that something was broken: there was a certain slowness to the way everyone moved, so subtle and indefinite that Roman couldn’t quite tell if it was real or only his perception. The entire group, Thomas included, seemed trapped in a perpetual damp autumn afternoon—nothing seemed particularly important to anyone but Virgil, who conducted himself with such frantic, unwell concern that he seemed to be compensating for everyone else’s sluggishness. Worst of all, Virgil _knew._

That night, after their conversation, Roman had fallen asleep feeling more optimistic than he had in months. It had felt like a fairy tale: Virgil, ironically enough, was his knight in shining armour, and Roman had been happy to let himself be rescued.

His happiness faded once it dawned on him that, in real life, the story keeps going once the happy ending has been reached. There was nothing good, or exciting, or beautiful in the nervous way Virgil glanced at Roman when they were together. Their adventures in the kingdom together, although fun at times, were irreparably tainted by the knowledge of their origin.

On top of it all, Virgil was so _nice_. He did most of the talking when they proposed the idea of therapy to Thomas, which couldn’t have been easy for him. Once or twice, while they were talking, Virgil let slip a playful insult, and the look of sheer _panic_ on his face made Roman want to curl up and die out of guilt.

It was on that fifth day, during Roman’s second adventure with Virgil, that he asked for the notebook back. They were sitting together underneath an apple tree, resting and enjoying the view after their recent defeat of a vicious baselisk-vampire. Virgil bit his thumb nervously as he considered Roman’s request.

“I don’t think I can do that,” he said finally.

“Why not?” asked Roman. “It’s not as if I could hurt myself with it. It’s only a journal”

“I know.” Virgil fidgeted. “It’s just—it’s a symbol, I guess?”

“A symbol?”

“Yeah, um,” he hesitated, “I know it’s dumb, but it kind of feels like… as long as I have the notebook, I’m in control, and you’ll be okay.” He glanced around anxiously, as if he couldn’t decide whether or not to make eye contact.

“Oh!” said Roman, trying his best to hide his sense of guilt.

“You don’t need anything in it, do you?”

“No.” Part of Roman, the impulsive, dramatic part, wanted to pull out the spare piece of paper with the account of his mock suicide attempts on it and show Virgil that he wasn’t in control, that he didn’t need to try to be because everything was so much worse than he thought and Roman was probably a lost cause. If he revealed the paper, Roman thought, _something_ had to happen. Maybe Virgil would cry. Maybe they would _both_ cry. Maybe Virgil would say something to convince Roman that it was going to be okay, and that they could get through this. Together.

And then they would both wake up the next morning, and the world would keep turning, and Virgil would still _know_. And it would _hurt_ him.

Roman looked at Virgil, who was stressed, and tired, and so suffocatingly _real_ , and he decided that he could never show him the paper. In fact, it was careless of him to let Virgil see the notebook. Their conversation that night had been like a scene in a play, but Virgil never should have been anything other than a member of the audience. He shouldn’t have had to stay once the curtains closed. It wasn’t fair to him.

“You okay?” asked Virgil.

Roman nodded and took a bite out of his apple. Out of the corner of his eye, Princess Lavinia’s castle seemed to stare him down.

♥♥♥♥♥♥

Roman, to his credit, managed to resist going back to the castle for a while more. In the meantime, he read through the slip of paper (which he still carried in his pocket at all times, for reasons that even Roman himself didn’t quite understand) and savoured the way it made him feel like he couldn’t breathe. The breaking point came after Thomas’ third therapy appointment: by then, everyone else was caught up in the excitement of all the new, useful coping mechanisms Thomas was learning. Roman seemed to be the only side who noticed the various “maybes” and “I guess”-es that characterized Thomas’ discussions of his feelings and goals. Therapy wasn’t going to help, he realized, because Thomas didn’t have the full picture of what was wrong. Roman had to tell him, and therein lay the problem; because if Roman told him, then he would know, and he would never _stop_ knowing. Roman wasn’t sure if he could handle doing that to anyone else.

The solution, Roman concluded, was to start by telling someone who wouldn’t remember. Thus—

“It’s been a while,” Lavinia said with a small smile. She offered her hand, and Roman kissed it. It was ice cold.

“I’ve come to tell you something,” he said.

“I’m listening.”

“I—“ he paused. Creativity at a loss for words. Ironic.

“You want to kill yourself,” Lavinia finished. Roman flinched.

“Not exactly—“

“It’s okay,” she said, holding his hand tightly, “I care about you.”

Roman was fighting back tears. Here it was—the fairytale ending, unspoiled by the pressure of being real. He was loved in the moment, and the moment never had to end, and nobody had to _know_ how bad everything was. Roman was, at heart, a performer; the opportunity to experience his feelings as an actor before an adoring audience rather than a real person before other real people was irresistible. The thought of talking to Thomas dissolved like sugar in a bucket of water.

“I don’t exist,” Roman told her.

“It’s alright,” she responded. “Neither do I. We have to stick together, you see.”

She fidgeted casually with a pocketknife, leaving deep gashes on her icy palm. Roman pretended not to notice.

♥♥♥♥♥♥

It was different this time, Roman told himself. He had a support system now. He ate dinner with the other sides and everything. Things were different. Things were better, and that was why there was absolutely nothing wrong with knocking on his brother’s door on a Thursday afternoon and requesting information.

“So let me get this straight… You, Mr. sunshine-and-rainbows-happily-ever-after, need to know about _death by hanging_.”

“It’s for a historical fiction idea I’m working on,” Roman answered, feeling slightly guilty about his well-planned lie. “It’s in the early planning stages. It may not even get written—I want to check if some details work. I thought you might be able to help with the research.”

Roman observed an excited smile creeping onto his brother’s face. “Brotherly bonding time?”

“Sure,” he said a little nervously.

Remus clapped his hands childishly and motioned for Roman to come in. “The last time we had brotherly bonding time, you threatened me with a sword and told me never to speak to you again.”

“You filled my bathtub with severed kitten heads.”

“Yeah,” Remus said, chuckling a little at the memory. “That was fun.”

“I didn’t think so.”

“Yeah, but now you’ve removed the massive stick up your butt, right? You’re asking me about nooses and shit. I always knew this day would come.” Remus pulled out a laptop caked in questionable substances. Roman sat anxiously on a nearby chair, not bothering to argue. “I have a bunch of pages bookmarked,” Remus continued. “Tell me what you need to know.”

♥♥♥♥♥♥

“Gunshot wounds, too?” Remus asked. “You _have_ to let me read this when you’re done.” It had been about three hours since Roman arrived, and the two brothers had been discussing the specifics of various causes of death for the entire time. Remus was stretched across his bed, laptop in front of him, excitedly kicking his legs as he explained the finer details of death by falling, poison, and every other idea that Roman presented. Roman himself was still on the chair, filling the pages of a notebook with various facts and ideas. Logan, he thought, would be impressed with his note-taking skills, if not the content of said notes.

“As I said, I may not actually write it,” said Roman. “It’s just an idea.”

“It’s a fantastic one, from what I’m hearing,” said Remus. “Hangings, stabbings, people falling off buildings… It’s way more interesting than literally anything else you’ve ever written.”

“You think so?” asked Roman, feeling slightly ill.

“ _Yes_. I’ve been waiting _years_ for you to finally accept that we’re not that different.”

Roman stared at his notes, which suddenly seemed unbearably ugly.

“Hello?” He looked up to find Remus grinning at him. “I think you went somewhere else for a moment there. I do that too. Anyway—”

“I think I should leave soon,” Roman interrupted. “It’s getting late.”

♥♥♥♥♥♥

After he left, Roman went straight to Lavinia's castle. They ran through as many scenarios as Roman could think of using what he'd learned. It was at around 2:30 in the morning when things started to take a turn. They were sitting on the highest turret in the castle, chatting in the aftermath of one of Lavinia’s many plunges off the edge.

“How does it feel?” he asked her. “Dying, I mean.”

She stared thoughtfully up at the night sky. “It feels… it feels like dissolving, I think. Like when you bring me back into existence, but in reverse. I don’t know if that’s how it’s supposed to feel, or if it’s only because I’m not real.”

“I suppose it doesn’t matter,” said Roman.

Lavinia nodded in agreement, and a few more moments passed in silence. Finally, she looked him in the eyes. “Do you think _you_ can die?”

Roman felt as if he’d been punched in the chest. “We’re not doing that again,” he said firmly.

“I know,” she said. “I’m not proposing anything; I’m just wondering.”

Roman stood up and glanced over the edge of the tower. He must have been at least 90 feet up, he thought; high enough to ensure certain death for most humans. “I don’t know,” he said. “Probably.”

Lavinia was standing behind him now. “What do you think would happen if you did?”

“Stop.”

“But what do you think would happen?”

Roman took a shaky breath. “I guess… Thomas would have to make do with only one Creativity.”

“Because you’d be gone.”

“Yes.”

“You wouldn’t exist.”

“Right.” Roman noticed that, without quite noticing what he was doing, he’d stepped up onto one of the crenels around the edge of the turret. Far below him, he could see tall grass rippling in the night breeze. He suddenly felt very unsteady.

“Isn’t that kind of incredible?” Lavinia asked him. “Right now, all you would have to do is take a single step and you’d be gone forever. Doesn’t that make you feel powerful? You could decide your whole future all by yourself, and all you have to do is jump.”

“But I don’t _want_ to,” Roman said, half-pleading.

“Then come down,” she said coldly.

Roman found himself unable to move. “And, anyway, I created all of this. I could… make the ground softer, or make myself invulnerable to injury, or summon something to--”

“Will you?”

There was a long pause. Despite himself, Roman found himself visualizing the sensation of the roof falling out from below his feet. Slowly, it dawned on him how helplessly _afraid_ he felt.

“I don’t want to die like this,” he said finally.

“I’ll be downstairs,” Lavinia responded in a tone that sounded strangely disapproving.

Roman stayed frozen on the crenel, alone, for a few more achingly long seconds before finally stumbling back and falling onto the floor of the turret. His head crashed painfully onto cold stone, but, considering the alternative, Roman didn’t mind much. His heart was racing. _I could have died,_ he repeated to himself under his breath. _I was right there. I could have died._ For the first time in weeks, Roman was painfully aware of how ugly a thing had been occupying his mind. A million emotions flitted through his head like injured birds before Roman finally settled on shame.

He’d let it become a problem. _Again._ He’d spent all night acting out scenes that were, frankly, disgustingly violent, using information given to him by the literal physical embodiment of terrible thoughts. Roman had done something _bad_ , and he knew it, and it could have killed him, and he was starting to wonder if maybe he would have deserved it. What had Remus said—something about the two of them not being that different? It was true. Roman had long since stopped being himself, and now he had become his own antithesis, obsession with death and all. Perhaps nothing much would change if Thomas had to live with only one of them. Roman realized with detached resignation that he hated himself more completely than he had ever hated his brother.

He pulled his phone out of his pocket and selected Virgil from his contacts list. Things were bad; he could see that now. Roman needed help, and he didn’t think he could forgive himself if he reached out to anyone other than the one side who’d already been dragged into his mess.

 _I don’t trust myself anymore,_ he typed out, and then erased it. That was too blunt. He didn’t want Virgil to panic. _I need to talk to you._ That was worse. Virgil was probably asleep, anyway. Waking up to a missed text from a suicidal friend saying “I need to talk to you” was something that Roman wouldn’t wish on his worst enemy, let alone his friend who was the literal personification of anxiety and already had so much to deal with and _Roman you fool what are you doing you’re going to ruin his entire day—_ He stared at his phone screen for a while, trying to think of a non-frightening way to say “text me when you see this; I might want to die just a little more than we thought,” before giving up and putting it away. Roman stared up at the stars, tears forming in his eyes. Pathetic. The embodiment of creativity, and he couldn’t even write a text. Out of the corner of his eye, the tower’s battlements stood cold and sinister, like ghosts. He couldn’t stay here.

♥♥♥♥♥♥

As he rose up into the real world, Roman felt even more ghostlike and wrong than before, and for a moment, he wondered if perhaps he'd made a mistake. He was in Thomas' bedroom. A bit of light from the streetlights outside leaked over the top of a nearby window, and he could see the source of his being fast asleep in bed. Roman considered his options: should he sit on the floor, or lie in bed and risk waking Thomas? He opted for the latter, carefully positioning himself on the unoccupied side of the bed, on top of the comforter so he wouldn't cause too much of a disturbance.

Roman lay there, listening to the steady rhythm of Thomas' breathing, as the night's events replayed in his mind. He'd considered just going back to his room, but had decided against it. It was a prudent decision: already, his disgust with his own fantasies had begun to fade, and his half-awake mind drifted between images of violence and despair. He dreamed hazily of screams and open wounds and twisted bedsheets tied together in knots. Once or twice, Roman jerked awake, startled to find himself alive and unharmed before swiftly remembering that he had been dreaming. Finally, he was startled to wakefulness by a yell of surprise.

"What is it?" Roman shouted, his hand going automatically to his sword.

"Oh! Roman!" came the reply. There was a pause. "Why are you in my bed?"

Roman relaxed. "Why are you awake?" he countered. "It's—"

"Four in the morning," said Thomas. "I was getting some water." He was indeed holding a glass of water. He must have gotten up without Roman noticing.

"Oh, I'm sorry," said Roman. "I can--"

"No, you can stay if you want," said Thomas, sitting down on the edge of the bed. "I was just startled."

They sat silently in the darkness for a few moments. "Thank you," said Roman.

"No problem. You're a part of me, so you'd still kind of be here if I asked you to leave, anyway."

"Yeah."

Thomas took a sip of his water. There was a long pause.

"I was… having a rough night. I didn't want to be alone," Roman said, trying to fill the silence.

Thomas took a moment to process this. "Do you have nightmares, or…"

"Something like that." Roman waited to see if Thomas would ask questions.

"Do you want to talk about it?"

"No."

They sat in silence for a few moments more.

"Are you sure?" asked Thomas. "You're, like, weirdly quiet. It's kind of worrying."

So he'd noticed. Roman was grateful, in a strange sort of way. "I'm just tired," he said.

"Okay." Thomas set down his glass of water. "I think I'll try to get some more sleep. Do you want to stay?"

"Do you want me to stay?"

"I'll be asleep, so I don't think it'll really matter either way."

"I see." Roman fidgeted with the corner of a pillowcase. "I'll leave, then."

"Goodnight," said Thomas. "Or, good morning, I guess. Try to get some sleep; you seem like you need it."

"Right." Roman paused, then blurted out: "I think you should stop going to therapy."

The resulting silence dragged on like an uncomfortable plane trip.

"I'll think about it," Thomas said at last.

Roman nodded and sunk back into the realm of Thomas' mind, feeling inexplicably discouraged.

♥♥♥♥♥♥

Roman didn’t get any more sleep that night. Instead, he returned to his imaginary castle and sat with Princess Lavinia until sunrise.

“You wanted him to argue with you,” she observed. “It would have been a compelling storyline.”

Roman stayed silent, watching the too-perfect grass ripple in the night breeze.

“What will you do if he takes your advice?”

Silence.

“I’ll tell you what _I_ think you’ll do.”

Roman tried his best to tune her out, desperately singing the same few half-remembered songs over and over until the sun rose.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm not entirely confident in the characterization here, but honestly I think this is a good type of fic for the narrative voice to be slightly off. It adds to the atmosphere. Hopefully the next chapter will get written in fewer than five months. In the meantime, please enjoy/cry to my playlist for this fic: https://open.spotify.com/playlist/4brMGz5JPfNoPIigG4fhIL?si=1f8a0a8ea98840a7  
> Finally, have you brushed your teeth today? I haven't, but I should. We all should. Self-care is important. Maybe talk to a friend if you're able. Reading too many angst fics is probably bad for your mental health.


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